


Cigarette Daydreams

by Sky_kiss



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Cutesy Trash, Drabble, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-ship, Robot/Human Relationships, Some Dark Fic, mixed genre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5251169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Commonwealth, being an irradiated wasteland, wasn't a great mood setter. Sometimes though, you got lucky. Sometimes there was the rare moment of peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> This will just be a collection of various minifics, different genres, etc. Mostly fluffy, because I'm trash.

There’s a rare break in their schedules. 

Admittedly, a poor choice of words. The Survivor rubs at her ribs, wincing at the still dull ache. They’d managed to set most of them but they’d be tender for a few days yet. There were downsides to attempted heroism. Almost all of them involving broken bones and a grenade induced temporary deafness. 

Nick had, justifiably, given her hell. 

Still, it’s not all bad. Being back in Diamond City, even if just temporarily, has been a nice change of pace. Kelly can’t say she regrets sleeping in a proper bed, eating real food. And Nick, no matter how much he’ll deny it, is glad being back in the office. The cases have been piling up in his absence. He takes a few, ones that won’t lead him beyond the city walls. Sometimes she’ll see him skulking about the city, collar all turned up and in full detective mode. Always leaves her smiling. He loves his work. 

Sometimes she regrets taking him away from it. Even if she’ll never regret having his company. 

Selfish, maybe. 

He comes to find her one evening, cutting quite the image as he closes the distance between them. He’s an old film come to life, coat fluttering behind him ever so slightly, the Dugout’s omnipresent cigarette smoke curling around him. Nick tips his hat to her. The synth doesn't walk so much as he swaggers, moving with a natural smoothness that shouldn’t be possible for his metallic frame. 

He holds out his good hand, smiling, and says he’s got something to show her. 

Her stomach does an embarrassing little flip. 

____

Nick is remarkably vocal tonight, well within his element, back at home. The synth leads her to one of the outside walls of the stadium, indicating a set of stairs with a tip of his head. The thick coating of ash and debris says it’s not in common use. The upside of being the city’s handyman was you learned all the backroads, all the nooks and crannies everyone else overlooked. She tries to smile, but those stories never really soothe her. It’s just a reminder of the rough hand he’s been dealt, the scars written all across his frame. He leads them up and up, flight after flight of stairs. Her ribs twinge in warning. 

“Hey, hey,” he stops them, reaching out to steady her, “We need to pause? Head back down?” 

She’ll be fine. Nick goes back to his stories, even if he’s watching her a little more closely, careful that she doesn’t reinjure herself. It’s sweet, in its way, if unnecessary. 

He does promise it’ll be worth it. With all his particular mix of sarcasm and determination, thumbs looped in his jacket pockets, fedora tipped down. Kelly smirks, shaking her head, focusing on the scenes around them. A little like wandering a graveyard, cutting their way through the skeleton of a once great relic. The back half of the stadium, the hallways, the stairs, offices, are mostly boarded up or collapsed. Nick holds the door for her as they crest the final few steps. 

Her breath catches in her throat. 

For an irradiated wasteland, the Commonwealth did have a rare beauty to it at sunset. The fading sunlight filtered through the pollution in odd, impossible colors, oranges and greens that seemed to glow. She never noticed when they were out in the field, too busy watching for ambushes. Here in the relative safety of Diamond City, she lets herself relax, just a little. Below, the townsfolk go about their lives. It’s almost...mundane. A little piece of the old world, restructured a bit but still there. 

Below, a child lets out a little yelp, dancing forward and out of its father’s arms. He sweeps it back up in a crushing embrace, the mother shaking her head, following along behind. Kelly looks away. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

He chuckles, “You don’t have to sound so surprised.” The hand at the small of her back pushes forward, leading her right up to the railing. The nosebleeds had always been her favorite seats in the entirety of the stadium. Terrible, when it came to watching the game but they gave you the most incredible view, a bit of Boston stretching out across the horizon. The skyscrapers had blotted out a goodly portion of the skyline but they’d had their charm as well. 

Kelly wraps her arms around herself, feeling her chest tighten, a swell of memory and emotion threatening to overcome her carefully erected wards. “Nate was a Sox fan.” She teases her lower lip between her teeth. The hint of pain is enough to keep her thoughts from clouding, “He used to describe it like being in a bad relationship. Know they’re going to let you down but...you keep hoping they’ll work it out.” She sighs, leaning more heavily against the railing, “It’s a family failing. We love our lost causes.” 

“Only ones worth fighting for.” 

She smiles, nudging his chest with her shoulder, “Thank you for bringing me here, Nick.” 

“You’ve seen so much of the ugly side of the Commonwealth. Thought it might do you some good to see the…” he shrugs, searching, briefly for the right phrase, “Less violent half. It’s rare but. You can make it work. Build a life.” 

That doesn’t seem half as impossible as it once might have. The Wastes aren’t half as frightening or vast or strange. She’ll cope. And when she can’t…

...Nick’ll be there, all confidence and old world charm and a barely veiled need to fuss over every little hurt. “Can we stay up here a little longer?"

“Course. Be a shame, wasting this sunset,” Nick takes her arm, helping her into one of the seats, still amazingly intact. The touch falls away as soon as they’re settled but the weight seems to linger, filling her with that same warmth. 

He’s right, of course. It is beautiful. He lets her lean her head against his shoulder and they sit like that awhile. Looking out at the world, listening to the city below. It’s peaceful, even if that’s impossible for the Commonwealth. 

He had a way of making impossibilities work.


	2. Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick has a tie for every occasion (but he only wears the one).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there's ever anything you ever want/need to see done.

No one ever forgot their first look at Valentine’s office. 

She’s seen it on more than a few of the citizens face when they finally drag themselves in, eyes widening comically. It’s a mixture of surprise (it was much, much larger inside than the modest exterior might suggest) and horror, always those same two states. The Survivor understands. Her own reaction wasn’t any different. 

Chaos, that’s the word. Roughly organized chaos, if you asked Nick. He’s biased. That first look, of two cluttered desks shoved into the too tight space, paper everywhere, gave the impression that a much smaller, though perhaps equally destructive nuke, had detonated within the confines of the Agency. 

Nick describes it as an air of cultivated mystery, flashing that easy smile as he leans back in his chair, fingers linked over his stomach. The lantern light added a sense of closeness, an old world charm you couldn’t find anywhere else in the Commonwealth. The permanent scent of oil and old paper hangs on the air. When she asks about that, he describes it as masculine. Fire hazard seems more likely but she’s loathe to begrudge him such things in his own home 

The Agency is chaos, however. Filing cabinets are thrown most anywhere there’s room, stuffed full of old cases. A quick glance reveals there’s little rhyme or reason behind any of it. He’s too busy to do anything more than tuck the paperwork anywhere it’ll fit. Most of the drawers barely close anymore. 

She isn’t surprised. More than a few of the younger officers she’d worked with before the war had desks and offices not so unlike Nick’s. A bachelor lifestyle. 

Kelly takes a deep breath, looking up from her seat on the floor. She’s pulled most of the files out now, stacking them in neat piles. Alphabetical order, of course. The magnitude of the task had not fully settled in until about halfway through but she’s committed now. She smiles, thumbing through one of them. A search and rescue. In the grand scheme of themes, it would affect the Commonwealth precious little. But it had for that family. Nick had done a lot of good. More than most people could ever dream. 

There’s theft, missing persons, kidnappings; he’s worked out a few ransoms, a murder here and there. Before the war, he’d have been decorated beyond the telling of it, no doubt up for promotion. That’s bittersweet too. She tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear, glancing up at the man in question. He’s hunched over his desk again. Burning the midnight oil a little more literally. 

She’s seen enough movies to know how this should go for them. She’ll climb to her feet and amble forward, grumbling about the stiffness of her back. Maybe he’ll tease her but either way, in that film, it ends the same. Her arms tangled about his neck, painting his face with lazy kisses. He’ll protest, he’s got work to do, but ultimately indulge her. It’s how it should go. 

Her lips tick down, pursing. With Nick, those time honored tropes don't play out. His chivalry, his selflessness; it’s a double edged sword. He’ll just flash her a sad little grin and lead her away. He’s got his business. More importantly, pretty human dames didn’t get mixed up with old bots. 

She hates the terminology he sometimes chooses. Old, ugly; Nick paints the world in positives and reserves the negatives for himself. 

Kelly climbs to her feet. She moves around the desk instead, back towards one of the old suitcases he keeps dotted around the place. She’s asked it about it once. Why have dressers, bureaus, if you were going to keep everything you owned in suitcases? His response is lightly teasing, colored by a darker note of truth. He’s just staying ahead of the curve, still packed in case Diamond City ever wised up and ran him out of town. 

He has one spare trench, three different white shirts and an entire suitcase full of ties. She frowns, sifting through them. He has a thousand but only wears the one, simple, black. The knot loose and lazy. She smoothes one between her thumb and forefinger. Almost all of them have a deep run in the fabric, leaving the delicate material looking pinched. 

She squeezes Nick’s shoulder before she goes, promising she’ll be back. 

_______

 

“I got you something.” 

Nick glances up from the files laid out in front of him. Old cases, some still open, most just...fairly decent memories. The synth smiles, something flashing in his eyes. Excitement, maybe, or as near to it as he could manage. The notion warms and hurts her heart in equal measure. For as much as he’s done for the people of the Commonwealth, he’s still not accustomed to little niceties in return. He links his hands on his stomach, leaning back, waiting for her to continue. 

She slides the tie across the desk, the slip of fabric still shimmering. It’d looked too new, like it’d just come from the factory and not suffered two hundred years of disuse. Kelly shrugs a little, not pulling away when he reaches out to take it from her. As far as his collection went, it wasn’t anything special. A single diagonal of gold on a black surface. It’d reminded her of his eyes. 

“Got good taste, I’ll give you that much,” he holds it next to his chest, “What do you think?” 

“Might look better if you try it on, Nick.” She corrects herself, “You don’t have to…” 

There’s a sadness to him in the moment. He chuckles, reaching up to give a gentle tug on his collar. Gently, he sets the tie back on his desk. “Guess it’s easier said than done.” With a grin he doesn’t mean, he holds up his bad hand. The metallic framework glitters in the low light, “Plays nice with old tech but delicate fabric. Little more difficult.” 

She should let it go. She offers her hand instead, “You’ve got friends for a reason, Nick. We like to help.” 

“Save the Commonwealth, maybe. Not help an old bot play dress up.” 

“Just stand up, Valentine. You’ve been wearing the same damn thing since we met. It could use a cleaning.” 

He chuckles at that, holding his arms out wide in surrender, making an exaggerated show of presenting himself to her. It’s ridiculous, really, but leaves her feeling warm regardless. It’s easy, it’s close; the way it’s always been with Nick. She removes the old tie without much thought. 

His shoulder’s do seem to stiffen when she straightens his collar, setting his shirt right. Wishful thinking, she’s sure. Plucking the new tie from the table, she goes through the all too familiar routine, “We had a lot of young officers. Before we’d start our trial’s for the day, they liked to come to me.” She smiles, pulling the knot tight for him, easing it up beneath the collar, “Try and make them presentable.” 

“Nice of you,” he’s not looking at her. Odd for Nick. 

She smoothes it out the remaining wrinkles, offering him a soft smile. It’s still a little odd, the way he puts off no real heat. He’s solid though, delightfully so. “There you are. Good as new.” 

It’s a horrible cliche. She isn’t moving her hand away, still smoothing out a wrinkle on his lapel. He’s looking at her again but it’s sad and a little too knowing. 

She gives a quick tug on the tie, pressing her lips to his before he can protest. There’s a thousand damn reasons not to walk this road. It’s a small margin of victory when he doesn’t move away. His shoulders are pulled tight, maybe embarrassed, maybe regretting. 

He clears his throats, hands settling on her hips. Gently putting some distance between them, “Hell of a tie to incite that kind of reaction.” 

“Eh, what’s underneath isn’t bad.” She smoothes it out a final time, patting his chest, “I’ll get back to filing.” She feels his eyes on her, lingering as she moves away. Nick shakes his head, settling back at his desk.


	3. Gallery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick gets to repay her for that rescue (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not fluff. Not really at all. It's not too dark but it's not fluff. Some spoilers for the Pickman Gallery quest. Kind of? Altered it a bit for drama-ish purposes.

That morning was no different from a hundred others in the Commonwealth. The sun rose, as it always did, hid behind the thick layers of clouds, as it usually did. Eventually it would set. Maybe it was in the process of setting now. The Survivor raised a hand, attempting to shield her eyes. It was always harder to get a read on those things down in Boston proper. The once grand buildings were decrepit now but they still blocked a goodly portion of the horizon, the light along with it. 

Her memories, as happened so often after a great trauma, were fragmented at best. She couldn’t tell you anything that came before, or much of what came after. It was just flashes, infinitesimal things. 

There was a name. Pickman’s Gallery. Hancock had sent her, the ghoul’s easy nature not disguising the inherent danger in the task. The gangs around Goodneighbor were particularly violent. That they were settling down raised more than a few questions. 

She remembered Piper, one of the girl’s hands pressed between Kelly’s own shoulder blades. There was no weight behind the touch, just a warning. Maybe there had been Raiders.

There was gunfire. 

There was a searing, hellish pain in the back of her head, radiating down her spine. The awful ringing in her ears, mixed with a slow, warm trickle, promised an explosion. Hard to say; her vision was too foggy to make out much of anything. 

The scent of gasoline still hung on the air. Still heat, still a hint of gunfire (just one, one gun, precise, methodical). It all faded away. She remembered staring up at the sun and wondering where the day had went. 

 

_____

 

Nick was pacing, had been for the last half hour. 

“Piper,” the girl was wide eyed, out of words for once. The single facet somehow impressed the severity of the situation on him. Nick set a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him properly. Her pupils were heavily dilated. A knock to the head, proximity to a frag, maybe. He snapped his fingers once in front of her face. Crude, but it seemed to call her back. “Need to know some things. Where you were. What you were doing.” 

Who she was with went without saying. 

“Shit, Nick,” she dragged a hand across her face, dark eyes flicking from side to side. Looking for something in Goodneighbor’s neon lights. “It wasn’t even bad. It shouldn’t have been.” The strength was already flooding back to her. Piper never stayed down long. Her jaw was already set, “A car. That was it. A dozen raiders and that goddamn car went off behind us.” 

His voice was cool, practiced, Detective Valentine, not Nick, “Need more than that Piper. Where were you? Where was Kelly?” 

She scowled at him, wincing, “She got...blown back. I didn’t see where, Nick. I just, dragged myself clear to an alley. Dunno how long I was out,” she stared past him again, clutching her arms around herself. She looked very young in that moment; very young and very small. “I looked for Blue, I swear to God, Valentine. But she wasn’t there. Most of ‘em weren’t.” 

“The Raiders?” 

Piper would never be one for hysteria. In that moment, there was a mad light in her eyes, the same wild energy she sometimes suffered when she latched onto a breaking story. The girl clutched his good hand, her voice a low hiss, “The bodies, Valentine. The bodies weren’t there.” 

________

 

Where the bodies were was the Gallery, tucked neatly away within Pickman’s own private studio. He’d never bothered to hide his work. Too few people were left around to admire it, let alone criticize. The man found that particularly sad. Some days it was more of an irritant. 

Today, though, he was in a good mood. The Raiders he so loathed had come calling with all their idiot abandon. Dead now, and quicker than he would have liked, but it wasn’t a bad haul. Six serviceable bodies altogether (he’d have to work quickly), two still alive. The male was nearer death’s door, taking in wet, gurgling breaths of air as he slowly drowned. The woman was better off. 

By his estimates, he’d have enough supplies for nearly a week’s worth of his art. 

This pleased him. He returned to his work, humming. 

_______

 

Red.

It’s just one word, one awful word crashing through her skull with maddening impossible weight, a lunatic force. Red. It’s all red, she thinks, almost laughing, the sound shrill and high; the walls, the floor, the goddamn ceiling are all that same shade of red. Blood red; books liked to bandy the term around willy nilly, never really stopping to think about the implication. To them, it was just another hue, another dab on the artist’s canvas. The truth was more gruesome, more awful. 

Hundreds, thousands of colors and shades in the damn spectrum but none were quite like blood. It had an awful energy, a glow, a stink to it, which hung in the air, climbed inside you. 

It’s everywhere. The sharp burn, the lacerating pain across her palm says she’s joined, is joining, the canvas. Pickman was there, his back to her. He’s humming to himself, happy as a clam as he dipped his brush in the ghoulish concoction. One stroke, two, and then another dip. The mad voice came again and she smiled, tongue flicking along her lower lip and tasting blood. A Monet, huh, a regular fucking van Gogh. 

Something bit at her wrists, cuffs maybe. She’d break them before she stuck around. The other’s hadn’t died slow, no sir, no indeed. A dead man (woman) was a useless man (woman). The new blood, freshly circulated, that was the good shit. It took cut after cut, here, there, everywhere under you finally kicked it. 

Kelly dug her nails into her palm. The flash of pain was sharper than any knife and blissfully clear. She dug in until lights flashed behind her eyes. The Commonwealth hadn’t stopped her. Not raiders, not Deathclaws, not anything…

...what had Piper said though? The Woman Out of Time. Just like that. All caps. You could hear it in the way she spoke; all caps for emphasis. 

Pickman turned and for a moment, she thought he looked past her. The black eyes stared sightlessly forward, fixed on a point well beyond, a sound maybe, or something that only he himself could see. 

He stepped forward, towards her, and the pain, darkness quick on its heels, came again. 

_____

Piper didn’t hesitate when he asked her to take him back to the scene. By nature, she was a brave girl. Even if she had been (she wasn’t) near hysterics, she wasn’t sure she could’ve said no. There was a look in Valentine’s eyes, cold and unlike him, that she didn’t like. It reminded her more of the wild synths they sometimes came across than the man she’d known for so many years. 

A wind chased it’s way through the ruined city. On instinct, she shivered. 

“Hey,” she reached out, curling a hand over his forearm. The Detective didn’t look back at her. The gold eyes flicked from bit to bit of debris. She’d been wrong. A few bodies still remained, too horribly mangled to even identify. “If she’s alive, we know where she’s at, right? The Gallery?”

They didn’t know. The word just hung in her head with an awful energy. It was well after dark, and the face of the building was all lit up, torches stuck every which way. In the right scenario, it might have been pretty. Tonight, it struck her as not quite right. 

“Might be right,” he indicated a patch of ground in front of them. At first, it looked like a dirt smear. The color was both too pale and wet. “Couple of tracks, all like that. All leading right to your Gallery.” 

Not hers, she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure she trusted her voice. 

_____

 

“What are you painting?” 

Her jaw ached. The deep, throbbing, hurt that came with pooled blood, maybe inactivity. She didn’t remember how long she’d been there, head cocked at the awkward angle. She winced, struggling to shift some weight off her arms. They were numb. 

Pickman (Richard. Richard Pickman, though she’d never learn it) threw her a glance over his shoulder, lips pursed. He was a thin man, not particularly tall. Despite his work, he wore a white suit. It was stained in patches with dirt but was otherwise clean, fascinating her in an odd, morbid way. He shouldn’t have been so clean. When he spoke, it was with a lilting dialogue, matching some otherworldly tune only he could catch, “My favorite past time today, my dear. A ghoul, maybe. Do you like the look of him?” 

It was all the same red. Some was older, thicker, lending the illusion of a darker shade, deep, nearly brown. She wanted to be sick but there was nothing in her stomach. “Prefer something more abstract.” The words were choked and she wanted to laugh. 

He tsked, shaking his head, coolly returning to his work, “No surprise.” 

There was a raider on the stretcher beside her. Dead, but she could feel a pistol tucked at the small of his back, biting at the skin of her own. Pickman either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. If she could get to it...

She did laugh then, or maybe it was a yip of pain, maybe both all at once. Far away from herself, she thought it was a hell of a thing. All the tricks the human body could manage. One hard yank and a slip and there the thumb went, right out of place. Right out. 

________

 

Nick didn’t bother to check if the door was locked. It wouldn’t be. Good people locked their doors to keep the bad ones out. Bad people locked their doors to keep what they’d taken in. Places like the Gallery, where it seemed to ooze a malevolence all its own, where the tell tale scent of iron hung on the air, those were never locked. Those people couldn’t imagine an end. 

He pushed the door open with the muzzle of his rifle, listening. Someone was humming not far to left, in one of the adjoining rooms. Behind him, Piper gagged. The girl looked visibly repulsed, rage flaring in her eyes. For the briefest moment, he considered telling her to go back. 

She wouldn’t. For better or worse (and for the life of him, he couldn’t decide which), the dames all seemed determined to get themselves killed. Insane, but endearing. 

The synth rapped his knuckles against the door, “Anybody home?” 

No answer. The humming stopped abruptly. His sensors weren’t what they once were but he could just make out the sound of movement. A single, human, male, setting something aside. The brush of fabric as he reached into his jack. Nick put a hand on Piper’s shoulder, shaking his head. If it was a firearm, she needed to stay back. 

“Hell of a place you got here,” he tried again, craning his head around the corner. The stairs headed up. The left side went into the gallery proper. He could just make out a handful of paintings, all a hideous shade of red. Blood, no doubt, “Don’t feel like owning up to it?” 

“We’re closed for now,” the voice was cold, monotone. 

“Not what I asked. You got a name, son?” 

The answer didn’t come. It was a gunshot instead, drowning out all sound. A wet sound followed, then a thump. Frowning, he moved around the corner. He had to pick his way across the floor. There were bodies, bones, here and the wood was slick with blood. The synth holstered his rifle, pursing his lips together. 

“And here I was, thinking I could finally return the rescue.” 

______

 

Shit, she ached. The 10mm clattered to the ground, her hand still throbbing. The recoil hurt like a bitch, pounding on the already torn skin of her palms. Kelly winced, letting her hand fall back to her side. The cuffs, still hanging around one wrist, bounced harmlessly against her leg. 

“Who says you didn’t?” 

Her legs were leaden. Nick must’ve seen it. The synth closed the distance between them, slinging one of her arms around his shoulders. By the time they left the Gallery, he’d be supporting most of her weight. He gave her a quick once over. Apparently content with what he saw, he shook his head, “Looked fine to me. Damsel freed herself.” He’d have to snap her thumb back in, she thought, dully. She nodded, too tired to play the game. Blood still hung on the air, leaving her feeling numb, sick. Nick squeezed her shoulder, “Hey, you doin’ alright? Was a hell of thing…” 

“I’ll be alright,” her voice sounded very far away. “Just get me home?” 

He paused for a long moment before finally nodding, “Why don’t you sit for a minute?” There was a small crash outside the door, followed by a few muttered curses. He shook his head, helping her down into a seated position, “ I’ll tell Piper to go ahead.” 

It was for the best. As desperately as she loved the girl, she wasn’t certain she could handle the constant barrage of questions. Kelly winced, letting her eyes lull shut, waiting for the sound of him. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, taking with it a goodly portion of her strength. She was very aware of how badly she wanted to sleep. 

Nick returned a moment later. The synth didn’t speak or offer to help her get up. Instead, he sunk to the ground beside her. One of his arms wound around her again, pulling her against his side. “Bit of a rough morning, I’d say.” He turned one of her hands over, frowning at the deep laceration there, “You want me to clean these? Be in a bad way if they got infected…” 

“Goodneighbor isn’t far.” She hooked one finger in the lapel of his jacket, tilting her head up to look at him, “Going to ruin your clothes sitting down here, Nick. Blood’s a bitch to get out.” 

He huffed out a laugh, “Think I’ll make do.” 

The urge to move was fading by the minute, “Thank you. For coming to find me.” 

“Couldn’t have left you.” 

Words were empty and he was too damn good to accept gratitude. She kissed him instead. Expression was easier, something he couldn’t write off. Even if it’s just a brush of contact, and it left her vision swimming. It was worth it. Nick tasted better than she expected. There was a near human texture to his ‘skin’ even if it’s slightly more firm, a little less give. A little smoke and something else she couldn’t properly quantify. She thought it was a little sweet, perhaps artificial, but not in an off putting way. The synth hesitated, as he always did, offering her a chance to pull away, to rethink. She fisted her hands in his jacket instead, sweeping her tongue along the seam of his lips. 

“Not here,” he caught her lower lip between his teeth. “You want to talk about this, keep it going, after we’ve got you looked at, well.” He shrugged, flashing her an easy smile, “Guess I’d be one lucky old bot. But we’re not starting anything here.” 

“C’mon, Nick, what’s more romantic than a girl bleeding out on you?” 

He shook his head, hauling her to her feet more than anything else. He was still smirking, “If that’s your definition of romance, I might have a better shot at this than I thought.” 

Her head was spinning, potentially from blood loss, more likely from the thought of him offering to try. To give them a shot at all. “The odds definitely aren’t against you.” 

Nick’s lips twitched up a little, his attention lingering on her a moment. There was something he wanted to say. Just not here. They were done with this place. It was time to move on. Outside, the sun was starting to rise. The morning was no different than any other in the Commonwealth.


	4. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both have at least one ghost following them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brb, need to go write some smut or something to make up for this feels vomit. Light spoilers for Nick's personal quest.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Nick?” 

The question came seemingly out of the blue, breaking their long silence. Out of character for the two of them. Conversation always came easy with Nick. It was just the air, she supposed. Exhaustion, maybe. It’d left her feeling out of sorts, heavy. Thin shafts of light managed to break through the cloud cover, illuminating the landscape in a strange, broken, way. It felt old, otherwordly. It felt haunted. Kelly glanced towards the synth settled across the campsite, painfully aware of the distance between them. 

A part of her wished he was closer. 

The synth chuckled, tilting his head to the side. His shoulders hitched up, tighter, as he leaned forward to poke at the fire. He couldn’t feel the heat, had no need for it, but was always very conscientious of its life. The more she pulled in on herself, the more he stoked it. Nick glanced up. The easy smile was at odds with the cautious light playing havoc with his eyes, “You talking about the guys in white sheets, sweetheart?” 

She nodded, staring into the fire. The night was particularly muggy; the fire was roaring. She felt a bead of sweat pooling at the base of her neck, tracing a slow, steady line down the planes of her spine. Gooseflesh chased over her arms regardless. A very real cold had stolen over her. Kelly hugged her arms over her chest, “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.” 

“Ghouls I believe in,” he chuckled again. This time they both knew he didn’t mean it. Nick leaned back, running his good hand along the back of his neck. An odd nervous tick, no doubt carried over from his previous life. She could see it on a man all too easily, ruffling the hair. She hadn’t decided what color she liked for him yet. A steely grey, maybe. “But ghosts? Real, fake...I can’t prove either conclusively.” 

“That’s not really an answer, Valentine.” 

A silence stretched between them before he spoke again, his voice softer, “I believe in them, yeah. Maybe not in the...tortured spirit kind of way. I’m not sure about that, but.” His mouth twisted, the corner turning down briefly before he schooled his expression, “Everyone carries something with them. A person, an event...sometimes it haunts you. Sometimes you can’t shake that weight.” 

She smiled, “Sometimes you welcome it, too.” 

“Sometimes.” He threaded his fingers together. The synth watched her. Over the flickering light of the fire, his eyes seemed halfway otherworldly, the gold brighter, deeper. His fedora threw shadows across the planes of his face, leaving the already stark angles more severe. The eyes, though? Those glowed. “You have ghosts chasing you, Fisher?”

She smiled, a weight settling on her chest, “We both do.” 

The three words hung on the air, coloring the evening. Odd or paranoid as it sounded, she could feel them. For as often as they sat together, Nick was opposite of her now. The five feet or so felt infinitely more vast. They both had their ghosts. They sat with them now. A breeze, slow and gentle, wafted through their makeshift campsite. It was warm; she shivered. In the sallow, greenish light of the Commonwealth it was all too easy to imagine four figures gathered around the fire instead of two. 

Nick pursed his lips. The synth turned his collar up. 

“It’s hard to let go, isn’t it?” she turned her hand up, the muscles flexing at the wrist. Sometimes, she half expected a hand to take her own, an old habit dying hard. Nate had been a tactile man, never shy about expressing himself, letting the world know how he felt. To make up for lost time, he’d explained, face buried in her neck. All those months he had to spend deployed. “How much of her do you remember?” 

“Enough,” Nick looked away, watching the darkness instead. “Jenny was a good girl. Didn’t deserve what she got.”

“You loved her?” 

Nick reached in his jacket, searching for a cigarette. He was out. They’d been meaning to pick some up in Sanctuary but never got around to it. For a moment, he looked confused, unsure what to do with his hands. He let them hang over his knees. The fingers curled in the fabric of his trousers, “Have the memories of it. Nick did. The old Nick. Loved her more than anything.” 

“We have some time before morning,” she leaned forward, hugging her jacket around her more tightly, “Why don’t you tell me a ghost story?” 

____

 

Nick had a lot of memories jammed inside his head. Some good, most...shades of grey. The old Nick had a hard life, experienced more than anyone rightfully should have. He was a good man in a bad climate. The synth knew from his own time in the Commonwealth that didn’t leave you with a whole lot of happy times. 

The truth was, outside of his career, there hadn’t been much to the man. He’d lost his parents young. He made friends easily but he never kept them close. There was just the job. A single minded drive to make the world a better place. Noble, if at times self destructive. Those memories were hazy at best, the individual facets long since forgotten, smoothed over. 

Jenny, though. He remembered the particulars. Her smiles more than anything else; the way it had lit up her face. She’d been pretty, not properly beautiful. The biggest, greenest, eyes you ever saw and a too wide mouth that she pursed when she concentrated. When she read, she’d get this crinkle between her brows. When she got flustered (easily, often; one of the old Nick’s favorite pastimes) she’d stumble over her words, turn a shade of pink you never thought possible. 

Jenny was clear. 

“Can’t say that it’s my place. She’s here,” he tapped his forehead, frowning, “But that’s just leftovers. Girl was long gone before they strapped me together.” Fisher just nodded. There was a change in her disposition tonight, too quiet, too yielding. Dealing with ghosts of her own. 

“We’re all just memories in the end anyway, Nick. Long as you have some good ones I’d say you made out alright.” 

He laughed, “Not sure if that’s poetic or defeatist.” 

“Bit of both, maybe.” 

“Very diplomatic answer, great for the courtroom.” 

“Less effective on hard ass detectives?” He nodded, smiling a little at the way she looked down. There was something charming in the little concession, the hint of color lining her cheek. She cleared her throat, brushing a bit of hair from her eyes. “Maybe ghosts are just regret. The...promise of what could have been, what we could have had.” 

He jabbed at the fire. It was still roaring. The damn thing wouldn’t need his attention for hours. Still, felt good to do something with his hands. Anything that kept him from focusing on the moment. “You’re feeling introspective tonight. Hancock spike your food?” 

“Just thinking,” she frowned. “Lots of wasted time.” 

______ 

 

Years of it. 

Her schooling, his training, the war...they’d been apart almost as long as they were together. In a more idealistic world she’d have called it a fairytale love that kept their relationship strong. The reality was a little uglier. They were both simply determined people. Efficient or not, they’d sworn to make their marriage work. For the most part, they did. She’d loved Nate more than than anything when they were together. Ached when they were apart. But...he’d had his job. She’d had hers. 

At the end of the day, that same determination that kept them together had erected a wedge. Neither was willing to give. He could’ve left the military at any time. She could have travelled with him. They’d talked about it. Talked about making a change. 

But it was empty talk, pretty talk, and a few weeks later they’d separate again. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” 

Nick glanced up, his expression uncustomarily dower. They’d sat in silence the past half hour, both lost in their thoughts. Speaking felt strange. The synth considered her request a moment before nodding, “Anything you like, sweetheart. Seems like the night for it.” 

He wasn’t wrong. The moon had cut through the thin cloud cover, hanging full and bloated just overhead. Maybe it was just the absence of city lights, houses, civilization but the orb looked nearer now. Close enough that, if they stretched, they could steal it right out of the sky. Kelly shifted, her voice low even to her own ears, “I can’t...remember what my marriage felt like. I remember events, Nate, the words but…” 

She chuckled, “Not the feeling. Nate had only been back a few months before the bombs fell and we were...just getting back into it. Learning about each other and…” the woman frowned, plucking a rock from beside her and tossing it towards the fire. “It’s just images. Another woman’s life.” 

“Just leftovers?” 

She laughed, parroting his earlier words back at him. “Yeah. Long gone before the Commonwealth strapped me together.” 

_____

 

“Here, take this.” 

The woman stared at him for a moment, not quite processing his request. He pushed the glass into her hand again. The right corner of her lips ticked up, bordering on wistful, “You can’t drink, Nick.” 

“Naw, but you can. By the looks of things you need to,” he poured them each a generous portion of whiskey. The synth brushed his thumb over the label, now time worn. Guess it didn’t matter. He tapped his glass against hers, “Besides, couldn’t let a pretty girl drink alone. Just wouldn’t be right.” 

“Would make you a bit of a cad,” she brushed a hand through her hair, letting out a long huff of breath. At the end of it, she smiled, “Thank you.” 

“I can’t say it gets better, sweetheart. Take it from an old bot with a lifetime of bad memories; they don’t go away.”

“But?” 

He shrugged, absently turning his wrist over. Too much time out in the dirt, the dust; some of the motors were starting to pitch a fit. “You live with them. Learn to...mitigate your regrets.” 

The dame glanced down. It was a good angle for her, classic. Maybe the fire was drawn to one of its own, catching in her auburn hair. Didn’t do him any good but he took a pull off his drink, stuffing the other hand in his pocket. When she spoke, some of her strength was back, “Do you have any regrets, Nick?” 

“I’ve had my share.” 

“Any currently?” 

The synth chuckled, shaking his head, “Just one. Think you know it.” Kelly nodded. This time, she didn’t look away. The muscles in her shoulders and arms had drawn taut, almost as if she were ready to jump to her feet, fight, lay him out. Either way, it felt more like usual. The closeness was back. Muted, but there. He rubbed at the back of his neck, “Feel like laying it all out on the table?” 

She snickered, resting her chin on a bent knee, “I’d rather kiss you and call it a night.” 

The suggestion had more appeal than it rightly should have. At the end of the day, it was more simple than he would have liked. She was attractive. He was a man, with a man’s brain, the inherited urges, even if they were strange to process, codify. With a small grunt of effort, he settled down beside her. “Indulge an old bucket of bolts, huh? Need things a little clearer. Way I see it, we’re both too damn old for this...will they won’t they routine.” 

A gust of wind moved through their little camp. She used it to move closer, hugging his bent knee, watching him carefully, “Honesty, then. I like you, Nick. I love you. I won’t go so far as to say I’m in love with you yet but. There it is.” She gave him a light squeeze, flashing her first honest smile of the night, “You’re my best friend out here. If you’re willing, I’d like to try...us.” 

“Think you took a knock to the head if you want an old synth like me.” 

“Nick.” 

Funny, really. All the things in the Commonwealth that could rightfully set her off and that was it. She hated it when he talked like that. Nick couldn’t claim to understand. He held up a hand for peace, “It won’t go over well, sweetheart. Just the way of the world. People hate synths. Synth sympathizers…” Hell, a synth’s lover. Even he wasn’t sure just how that would go over. Violently, most likely. The thought caused an odd churning sensation in his gut. “Hell of a risk, lot of sacrifice on your part.” 

She pinched him, “None of that is how you feel, Valentine. This is a two way street.” 

The synth smiled, “You’re the best damn partner I ever had. Nick...the old Nick. He wasn’t great with relationships. I might be...marginally worse.” 

She nodded, smirking, “Marginally, of course.” 

“Don’t get snide, Fisher.” He shrugged, reaching out to trace a scar over the back of her hand. Bit of shrapnel had done that. It’d been shallow but it’d bled like hell. He’d held cloth over it for ten minutes before he’d felt safe stepping away. One of the first times he realized just how nice it was to have contact. Actual physical contact, positive, upbuilding. Not some goon trying to knock his lights out or choke him out. She turned her hand over obligingly, curling her fingers in invitation. “Point is. It’ll be clumsy. It’ll be dangerous. But hell, if you still want to give it a go...well, I’d be one lucky old bot.” 

She scowled again but it was better thing this time. Cleaner. Hell, the air around them felt better, less oppressive. Chuckling, he reached out, drawing her to rest against his side. It was still a few hours till dawn and she did need rest. For once, she went without a fight. The...his dame curled her fingers in his shirt, clutching at his side as she drifted off. 

He didn’t hold any illusions. It’d be dangerous. It’d be difficult. In the end, though, it’d be worth it. They could move forward, no regrets.


End file.
